


Lost Sheep

by Zagzagael



Category: Boondock Saints (Movies), Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-01
Updated: 2014-04-01
Packaged: 2018-01-17 20:11:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1400926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zagzagael/pseuds/Zagzagael
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt at livejournal's walkingdead_tv comm -</p><p>CHARACTERS: Daryl Dixon, Connor MacManus<br/>PROMPT: It's the end of times, a lone and grieving Irishman wanders into the woods surrounding the prison. Daryl finds him. TWD S3 Please no bro-cest, or slash.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lost Sheep

“Oh, sweet Jaysus, Mary and Joseph and their wee donkey, too.”

Daryl paused as he pulled one of his arrows free of a decayed skull, considering this outburst from the man with his back pressed against the massive buckeye. He had come up on the lone living human battling two Walkers, an impressive three dead at his feet, but it was a small war he could see the man was quickly losing. Dixon had stepped out from the underbrush and cleanly dispatched the two undead with a quick bolt through the back of each head. With the fluid masculine motion that seemed to define all of his movements, he had put one foot on the neck of a Walker and reached down for the arrow. It was then that the man had looked up, wild-eyed, blood bathed, and gasped at the sight of him, losing the upright in his knees and sliding slightly down the trunk of the tree.

“I’m dead? Tha’s it, then, this is the fookin afterlife?” the man was shouting to both himself and Daryl.

“You ain’t dead,” Daryl said soft and slow, then pulled the other bolt free and snapped the two arrows back into the quiver on his crossbow. He narrowed one eye and looked at the man. Probably the same age as himself, similar in build, but the accent was decidedly not Southern drawl. 

The other man had both hands, splay-fingered on his thighs now, holding his own body from falling while staring goggle-eyed at Daryl. “Wut? Am I dreamin’, brotha?”

Daryl cocked a hip, scratching at the long edge of his jaw. “I doubt it. You ain’t asleep.” He looked around to see if the man had made a camp or had any belongings other than what was on his back. “You alone?”

“Ya know I am.”

“How’s that?”

Daryl watched the other man pull great heaving lungfuls of air into his body, breathing back out through both nostrils like a human steam engine. He straightened himself, patting various body parts and clothing until he seemed reassured that he was in one piece, and then he took a step forward, arms raising and grasped him by the shoulders. 

“I cannae believe you’re here, standin’ here in front o’ me,” he said and began to pull him in for an obvious hug and Daryl scrambled backwards nearly tripping over one of the dispatched Walkers. 

Daryl put up one hand, fingers spread, the universal sign for it’s the end of the world but don’t be diving into the shallow end of the pond, mister. “What the hell you doin’, man?”

The outrage in his voice seemed to stop the personal space invasion and the other man tilted his head and looked hard at Daryl, his gaze drifting across the planes of his face, the long unkempt hair, the gore stained clothing, the crossbow. He covered his eyes with a shaking hand. “I dunno. I dunno. Somethin’s not right, here.”

“The world ain’t right anymore. You got a name?”

He threw a perplexed and desolate look at Daryl. Then he nodded as though it was painful. “Connor.”

“Daryl.”

“Daryl?” he asked, bewildered, and began to laugh, covering his mouth to keep the sound muffled. “Daryl?”

Daryl nodded, then squatted down and slung his pack off his back, fishing out a bottle of water and handing it up to the other man. 

Connor took it gratefully and drank half it down. “Tha’s good.”

“You ain’t alright, are ya?” Daryl asked, taking the water and drinking another half of the half.

“Nay, I’m good. I jus’ got riddled for a bit there. I’m right as rain.” He kept Daryl in the long sideways glance of his stare.

“You on your own then? How long’s it been like that for?” he was scowling from being looked at so hard.

Connor ran a long-fingered hand down his throat tapping at the tattoo on the left-side of his neck, looking skyward, blinking hard. “Oi, uh, my brother got taken down a week or so back. Right the hell in front of me. Lost count of the days. Ya know. We were in Atlantic City, and -“ He sniffed hard and turned quickly away, walking long strides past Daryl and the corpses littering the ground. He bent over and vomited the water back up. “Feckin’ Christ a’mighty,” he moaned quietly to himself.

Daryl heard the meaning louder than the words. The pain in the stranger’s voice. “You sick?” he asked. He knew the answer.

He watched as Connor straightened and laced his fingers behind his neck, pulling his head down hard, sniffing loudly now, and shaking his head. “Aye, no. I’m not sick. Just wrecked.”

“I get that. Here,” Daryl offered him the last of the water.

Connor turned and took it, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. “It’s crazy, but you look just exactly like…I mean I thought for a bad minute there you were, you know-” he cleared his throat. “You look like someone I lost.”

“The world’s kinda funny like that sometimes.”

“Nay, the world ain’t funny at all anymore.”


End file.
